EXIT STRATEGY
The basement level at 34 Hoxton Square seemed smaller than the upper floors. There was a long central room with a conference table ringed by smaller offices. The desks and fixtures looked like they’d all been bought at a Pentagon garage sale. Gray metal with tan accents. Jordan had appropriated an office in the middle, equidistant from the stairs they had come down and the front entrance. He stood hunched over the terminal. Sam sat. His arms and legs were tightly duct-taped to the chair. His left arm was noticeably swollen and his glasses were askew on his nose.
“What’s the plan, Jordan? What are you going to do? This can’t end well, you must know that,” Sam was saying.
Jordan didn’t respond.
“You know what will happen. To your family. And it will be your fault. You aren’t leaving us any choice.”
“Shut up,” Jordan snapped.
The log-in screen had no separate field for username or password, just a single blank space with a blinking cursor.
“Let me go now and we can try to work something out, Jordan. Security is going to be here any second. The building is constantly monitored.”
“I doubt that,” Jordan said. “I don’t think you want anyone else to know what goes on here and the people you work for have no reason to threaten you. They need you.”
He typed Terry Allison’s password—“a-r-s-e”—tik-a-da-tik.
The screen revealed a root directory, Unix. Figured. There was a separate Windows partition. Jordan navigated to it and booted into Windows. Seven, never upgraded. So much for security.
“Bravo,” Sam said. “Terry always was a little lax. But what’s it going to do for you? You need to stop and think, Jordan. You are killing your children.”
Jordan whipped around and tore a length of duct tape off the roll and wrapped it over Sam’s mouth.
He scanned the directory system and opened, then copied, several files. Then he opened Chrome and logged on to Gmail. He sent an email, attaching the files he’d copied.
“Now we wait,” he said. He leaned back against the wall, too uncomfortable to sit. Sam stared at the screen. A few minutes later there was a ding and a new email in Jordan’s in-box. There was no subject. Jordan opened it and smiled.
It said, Ça va, Yanqui?
Jordan hit Reply and typed, Ça va, con, and hit Send.
He ripped the tape off Sam’s mouth and swiveled the chair so Sam was facing him.
“So here’s where we are. My friend has received a series of Excel files. He has confirmed that they contain information on the identities and whereabouts of many, if not all, of your current clients. You will not be able to find him. The account I sent them to is already gone.”
Sam said nothing but continued to watch Jordan with a wry smile.
“While I assume these are probably not very nice people,” Jordan went on, “I have no interest in outing anyone. I just need some insurance. I need to know I’ll be left alone. Do we understand one another?”
Sam nodded. “Very well, I think.”
“I think it would be best,” he went on, “if Jordan Parrish stayed buried. I’m sure you of all people can provide me with documentation for some other identity.”
“Of course,” Sam said. “Your wife has gone missing, by the way,” he added, watching Jordan’s face.
Jordan tried to keep his face still. He didn’t want to give any more away but his heart was bursting. Stephanie had disappeared. She’d gotten the message in the bottle and understood. She was coming.
“Ah, you knew. I see. You are full of surprises this evening.”
“I have a question for you,” Jordan said. “How long ago did my partner approach you about getting rid of me?”
“Quite some time,” Sam said. “For what it’s worth I tried to dissuade him but he could be...convincing.”
“Could?”
“Our mutual friend has become somewhat of a liability.”
Jordan took this piece of information as if it were a foreign object inexplicably turned up in an old suit jacket pocket. He held it up in his mind and turned it this way and that, trying to figure out where it fit into his evolving worldview.
“I’m afraid he was drawing a great deal of unwanted attention,” Sam said. “It’s unfortunate.”
Jordan nodded as if this were explanation enough.
“I’ll need money,” he said finally. “I thought we might augment what’s left of mine with funds from some of your more—what’s the word?—let’s say ethically challenged clients.”
Sam tentatively flexed his left arm and winced as he nodded. “Oh, and I could use some clothes.”